


Wherever The Tide Takes Us

by glennjaminhow



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Family, Romance, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: Leslie's six months pregnant when she meets one of the three potential fathers of her unborn baby.





	

“You’re pregnant?”

Leslie glances down at the bump Ann recently took a picture of to send to the worldwide web (where everyone, including Mark, can judge and scrutinize her every move) proudly proclaiming her aunt-ular status to “full speed ahead! Baby Knope arriving in February 2011!” She rubs over the pudge gently, as if the mere weight of her palm could crush the baby. As if she isn’t already six months pregnant. As if she hasn’t known about him or her for a while now.

Because, trust her, no one wanted to be around the evening she found out, clean from two separate one night stands after her ex-husband Mark ended things with her. Just like that. Out of the blue. But whatever. Fuck him. And fuck Dave. And fuck whatever that other guy’s name is. Something with a “B.” Brad? Billy? Boston? Is that a name? No, right? Screw it. She isn’t even going to try to figure it out because it’s not like it really matters anyway. 

She wishes she could stop being so bitter. But she sees the new woman in Mark’s life on Facebook constantly, ripping at her heart and tearing it open for the entire universe to see. Because Leslie Knope shouldn’t and can’t be broken, but she is, and that’s not fair. Ann doesn’t think it’s fair. And if Ann doesn’t think it’s right, then it’s not right. This isn’t right. And now she has this baby to think about and her future campaign for City Council, and it’s too much.

And, for whatever reason, even after everything Mark put her through, she finds herself aching, yearning, urging to be that woman. Katya. She’s gorgeous and blond with ferocious curves and a great, enthusiastic smile that makes Leslie want to simultaneously throw up, murder her, and kiss the shit out of Mark. But Mark isn’t hers anymore. Hasn’t been in months. Because he cheated on Leslie multiple times, but there’s something that keeps propelling Leslie to him, dragging her to him over and over again as if it’ll make everything okay. 

Crap on a freaking shingle; they were married. That’s, like, love times a billion. He married her, put a ring on her finger, should’ve wanted to be involved in her life until they cease to exist, but that’s not what happened. What happened is that he dumped her and took the ring, and Leslie spent the better part of a week drunk off her ass and acting like a trashy idiot. What happened is that, now, she’s pregnant, and it could be Mark’s.

And how the fudge is she supposed to explain that to someone? That her and Mark fucked as a last chance effort to save their relationship.

That she, Leslie Barbara Knope, fucked two other people within that same week after getting plastered. 

Very sidetracked by her inner, rambling monologue, Leslie glances up to find Councilman Howser staring her skeptically. She nods. “Yes,” she says politely, not exactly in the mood to make a fool of herself in front of the guy she always manages to make herself a fool in front of. Things are so complicated. And this baby is sitting on her bladder, and she has to pee, and she needs a trash bag of mashed potatoes, and she doesn’t know what’s going on anymore.

“Congratulations!” he beams, and she nearly takes a step back because this guy can’t even take care of his own kids. Once, he shuttled his four year old son off to her for an entire day, and his pee was purple. Purple pee! Sure, she’s seen blue and pink pee before due to whatever form of zombie candy outbreak the Sweetums Factory released back in 2007, but never purple. Purple is such an odd color for pee. It’s not yellow; that’s for sure. “When are you due?”

“Galentine–” But she stops; that date doesn’t mean anything to him. “February thirteenth.”

He smiles. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

She shakes her head. “I’m keeping that a secret.”

Which she is. 

And, come to think of it, why and how is Councilman Howser just now noticing she’s pregnant? 

Man, that guy really needs to pay attention to his surroundings because she’s pretty sure she’s been pregnant for a while now.

With whoever’s baby this is.

She’s such a man whore.

Or does that term only apply to men?

Whatever. Equal rights.

She just wants to get home, take a nice, relaxing bubble bath, and forget about this. Forget about Mark and Dave and Brad-Billy-Boston and move on with her life. Move on from being cheated on and dumped and lied to. Just move on. That’s it. It’s such a simple, easy thing, and she needs it desperately. The stress could be hurting the baby, after all. And it’s definitely not only her in the picture anymore. She should stop with the caffeine and stuff; he or she could come out with radiation poisoning or a badly misshapen head or a freaking unicorn horn. 

If that’s even true.

Dammit, Jerry. Why does he always lie to her?

... Or was that Tom?

“Is Mark the dad?” he questions quietly, and Leslie’s heart drops to her toes.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t fucking know who the father of this baby is.

And how the hell is she supposed to answer that?

So she doesn’t.

In fact, she sprints the other way, effectively making a fool out of herself once again.

Not that it matters anyway.

~

“Ben Wyatt!” Chris exclaims, and no. No. It’s way too early. The cold November chill seeps into his skin, and he yawns, shivering as he gets into the passenger seat of the cramped rental car that’s too small, even for him. Jesus. It’s not even seven AM. He scrubs a hand down the side of his face, and why is this happening? Did robots attack? Did aliens take over? If either of those events occurred, he knew it before anyone else (and a major “haha” to Henry for being so stupidly naïve when they were kids). “I made you an herbal coffee! It’s fresh from the microwave!” 

Herbal coffee? From the microwave?

But he takes the scalding cup, sipping at the contents cautiously, even though he just brushed his teeth. 

Chunks. What? No. Coffee can’t have chunks.

Well, maybe herbal coffee can? He doesn’t know.

But what he does know is that he immediately gags out the window, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve and crossing his arms over his chest as if he’s been personally violated. Which he has been. His mouth’s been assaulted, and there’s no way to change that, to make that memory burn any less than Ice Town or the death of his mother or whatever. Nope. He’s stuck with chunky coffee for the rest of his life. Forever and always. Til death do they part. 

Okay, he’s being dramatic.

But he supposes inward dramaticism is at least a step in the right direction. Maybe the Zoloft is actually working now. A few weeks ago, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything, not even one minor, insignificant emotion when he should be mad or happy or sad or whatever, and now he’s moved to disgust and irritation and sleepiness. But, really, sleepiness probably shouldn’t count. 

It’s their first day in the twenty-third new town he’s been to in twelve years. He’s sure he’ll be pelted with oranges or jalapeños or birds or something, while Chris will be left alone because he rains sunshine and positivity, while Ben’s just the bearer of bad news. So, in order to prepare himself, Ben throws the hood of his coat over his head, smushing his cheek on to the cold glass window of this car that’s still fucking hurting his back and legs.

“I have an Eboost in my bag!” Chris offers.

“No thanks,” Ben tells him.

“Come on, buddy,” his partner says. “Cheer up! Today’s bright and new and brilliant, and it’s absolutely the best morning ever.”

“It’s snowy and cold and gross,” he counters. 

“Don’t be so glum, chum!” is officially where Ben stops listening and starts counting by nineteens.

~

She recognizes him the minute she sees him.

Well, not exactly or entirely.

There’s something oddly familiar about those wild tufts of dark hair that seemingly refuse to be tamed. About how slight, but powerful his body looks. About those deep, dark brown eyes that transport her to magical lands filled with Li’l Sebastian and her mermaid Ann Meredith Perkins and plenty of Sarah McLachlan songs and copious amounts of chocolate fountains around each and every corner. About his stupid plaid shirt and skinny tie and black slacks.

And she can’t quite pin her finger on why she knows him or where she knows him from; she just... knows him somehow.

She thoughtfully, gently rubs over her belly and smiles when she feels her tiny, little fish kick her.

Leslie’s thankful that, this time, the kicking doesn’t target her bladder because she’s sitting in this meeting with Ron and the new state auditor guy, Ben, she had no idea was coming since she’s been too busy still freaking out over the baby. Her baby. You know, the one she’s carrying in her uterus and will, ultimately, push out of her vagina in three months time. Yeah. That. And the new state auditor guy keeps glancing at her, and she almost blushes. Almost.

Because he’s alright face wise.

“So,” Ben starts. “I’d like to talk about where you think there’s waste in your department.” 

“Where do I start?” asks Ron.

It also just so happens to be at the same moment Leslie announces, “There is none.” 

“What exactly will you be cutting? And how much of it? And I can watch you do it while eating pork cracklings?”

Ben eyes him before thumbing through his folder once more, ignoring him completely. “Okay, let’s start with personnel. What can you tell me about Jerry Gergich?”

“He is one of the best people on the planet. He’s universally adored here. If you fired him, there would be a revolt,” Leslie says, lying through her teeth. Jerry’s the most incompetent person she’s actually ever met, but she’s certainly not going to let her department get slashed to ribbons by a man whose face is cute and whose body reminds her of a sexy, elfish king. Where the fuck has she seen him before? She knows that she knows him from somewhere. 

This time, Ben looks at her. “Okay, you need to understand that just to keep this town afloat, we probably have to cut the budget of every department by forty or fifty percent.”

“Okay?” Leslie says. “Well, but Chris said that you just had to, you know tinker with things.”

“Yeah, he said that because that sounds better than ‘we’re going to gut it with a machete.’”

“You’re a jerk,” she announces, and she almost startles herself when it leaves her mouth like uncontrollable word vomit. 

“I’m sorry?” Ben asks.

But Leslie feels her gears spinning uncontrollably, and she nearly pees right here in her chair. “I’m sorry. These are real people in a real town working in a real building with real feelings.”

“This building has feelings?” 

“Maybe,” she tells him. “There’s a lot of history in this one. How can you be so blasé about this?”

He points directly at his paperwork. “Because I didn’t cause these problems, Ms. Knope. Your government did. I’ll get what I need from the spreadsheets. Thanks.” And he gets up. Leaves. And Leslie feels this burning, stinging, horrifyingly awful sensation bubbling up inside her. How can he just walk away from this? Doesn’t he get that this is the end of the world? 

“What’s a not gay way to ask him to go camping with me?” Ron asks from beside her as tears swell in her eyes.

She pushes them away.

~

Ben’s grabbing a soda from the vending machine when he spots her for the first time since the meeting.

She’s beautiful. Curly, elegant blond hair that beams like sunshine and smells like rain. Striking blue eyes. But she looks... familiar? Like oddly familiar. Almost eerily familiar. It nags at the base of his skull, persistent and itching as the day drags on. He gets a headache from the paperwork Chris makes him fill out, and he needs to step outside, even if it is freezing, and he’s got a Pepsi can in his ungloved hand. And, really, he also goes out there because she’s there.

“Um, hi,” he says suddenly, gulping and nearly choking on his own saliva. She’s so gorgeous. His palms begin to sweat, and he shuffles his feet. “I’m sorry. I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier. I didn’t m–”

“Where do I know you from?” Leslie asks offhandedly.

He scratches the back of his neck, trying not to crack a smile because she looks deadly serious. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“So you do know me? Why didn’t you say something?” 

Ben shrugs. “I don’t know where I know you from. I kinda just... do...”

“Are you that juggler from that cookie store on Manchester Road?”

He instantly shakes his head. “Nope. Sorry. And juggler?”

“It’s a long story,” she tells him. “I’ve been going through a bit of a hard time.”

She gestures to her belly, her very obviously pregnant belly, hidden beneath the puffy purple parka she’s wearing. “I’m sorry.” And, don’t mind him, he’s totally not searching for a wedding ring. Because he knows that meeting was a rocky earlier, but come on. He isn’t made of stone. And, seriously, where the fuck does he know Leslie from? Why does he recognize her? Except he doesn’t remember a baby. But he doesn’t actually remember her either; he’s a bit confused.

There’s no wedding ring.

“Wait!” Leslie exclaims. “Are you that guy from Moe’s?” 

Moe’s. It’s a bar up in Indianapolis, where he and Chris are officially stationed in between jobs. He’s very familiar with it, especially since that’s usually where Chris drags him to when he’s down in the dumps. Every occurrence ends with Ben getting sloshed, coming home to his bare bones apartment, sleeping for two days straight, and trying to piece himself together on Monday. It’s a good thing he doesn’t drink often because he can’t hold his liquor to save his life. 

“Uh, I’ve been to Moe’s, yes,” he says. 

“Did you happen to be there on April 30th of this year?”

Weirdly, he knows the answer instantly. “Actually, I was.”

He doesn’t remember much of that night. It’s the spottiest night of his entire life by far. He woke up in some strange motel room with no pants, no wallet, and no sense of what the fuck happened. He found a black and pink polka dot bra on the floor, along with a few receipts that were crumpled beyond saving, a lukewarm fifth of Jack, and a mysterious bag of candy necklaces. He cancelled his credit cards and didn’t even bother searching for the eighty-something bucks or the missing woman he very obviously slept with because, well, he could barely move.

“And you’re obviously not Dave,” she murmurs.

“What?” he questions. “Who’s Dave?”

Leslie shakes her head, biting her lower lip. “Nobody. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay...” 

He’s about to turn around, to leave the awkwardness of this situation. He knows he knows Leslie from somewhere, wherever. Maybe Moe’s. Maybe not. And then she says, “You’re the guy with the crazy hair who drives the Saturn!” 

“Um... Yes? I think...”

“This is going to sound crazy, but I think you may have slept with me that night. At Moe’s,” she informs. “No. I’m pretty positive it was you. The hair. I remember the hair.”

Ben’s eyebrows furrow, and he cards his fingers through said hair, scratching the back of his neck. He shoves his hands in his pockets because he has no idea. He has no idea what the hell he’s even supposed to say to this. But Ben’s a numbers guy, has been all his life. And he glances at Leslie’s belly and bites the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds. What? No. This... This isn’t happening. Sweat pours down the sides of his face despite the frigid temperatures.

“A-And... um, that means?” he inquires, shifting his feet, but maintaining eye contact.

She looks right at him, and he almost throws up. “That means this tiny, little fish might be yours.”

~

Her dreams are cliché, but she guesses that they, along with many other things, don’t matter anymore.

Because those dreams, those ambitions, those steps she wanted to take revolved around Mark. Revolved around the idea of them being together forever. She wanted two kids and a big, fenced in yard with a giant swing set. She wanted a guardian raccoon named Paco and seven or twelve or forty-one cats with antlers. And, honestly, she can see how those ideas sound crazy, but, mostly, she just looked forward to spending that time with Mark.

Having a family with Mark. 

Growing old with Mark.

But, as she looks over a very nervous, sweaty Ben Wyatt standing right in front of her, there’s venom coursing through her veins, and she suddenly feels tears prickling her eyes. She lost. She lost so much, and this guy, this whoever and whatever from one random night in her past, could be the father of her child. Her sweet, tiny, little fish. Her lovable Casper the Friendly Ghost. He could be the dad. Dave could be the dad. And, yeah, even Mark could be the dad.

And that’s not fair. God, why did she have to go screw everything up?

“Um, I-I,” Ben stammers out, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t think that’s... possible.”

“Why not?” she questions.

“Because... Because I-I always use protection!” he reasons, starting to pace back and forth. “And why would that be any different with you?”

Leslie rolls her eyes. “Well, buddy, I hate to break it to you; I don’t remember you using protection.”

“How do you know that?” he asks. “You didn’t even remember me! I was just a familiar face!”

“I have a seventh sense about these types of things.”

“Seventh? What’s the sixth?”

“Knowing that you’re a jerk,” she tells him honestly. 

Because he was a jerk in that meeting, and he’s being kind of, sort of, possibly a jerk right now. She can’t really tell. Her emotions are all over the place, and he’s here, and she never thought she’d see even a potential father of her baby in the history of his or her existence. But he’s right here. Ben Wyatt. A man with crazy, unruly hair, a nice butt, and who’s alright face-wise. And, also, a guy who’s honestly about to pass out from shock and disbelief.

Maybe she doesn’t mean the whole “jerk” thing, but he still pissed her off earlier nonetheless.

“Leslie, I-I...” he mumbles. “I don’t even know what to say! I mean, I barely know you, and I could’ve knocked you up, and now... You’ve been pregnant with this baby for months!”

“Well how am I supposed to contact you when I had no idea who the fudge you are? And what am I supposed to say? ‘Um, hi, mystery-man-with-a-perfect-butt-from-what-I-can-remember, I think I may or may not be pregnant with your fetus in my uterus because you can’t keep your stupid man sperm inside you.’ Yours truly, the-woman-you-may-or-may-not-have-knocked-up.”

Ben rubs his forehead with noticeably trembling fingers, that moronic can of Pepsi still in his other hand. Damn him. She doesn’t know why she feels the compulsive need to eat, cry, pee, and kick him in the balls all at once, but she does. This... This has just been a long time coming, and she can’t even look in his direction without her heart in her throat. Because he could be the father of her baby. He could be the one to help her along the way. Or, rather, he could be the one to stomp on her hopes and dreams once and for all, to knock her down and remind her that she is nothing. Means nothing. Jeez, where’s all this pessimism coming from?

She’s Leslie Knope. She’s supposed to ooze confidence. 

But all she’s oozing now is anger and hurt and despair and possibly whipped cream from the six cans she consumed last night.

And this is when she feels it. The levy breaks, and these emotions she’s been hiding for months rupture out of her with one violent sob. She would collapse to her knees if it isn’t for Ben holding her up, wrapping his arms around her and allowing to weep openly into his neck. And she cries. Cries for her tiny, little fish that’ll be born with a crazy, incompetent mother who slept with three different guys in the span of a week. Cries for Mark because this could be his kid, and he won’t even answer her fucking phone calls. Cries for herself since she’s been trying to forget about this since it happened. To forget about the morning sickness and swollen feet and growing belly because it’s messy and convenient and makes her feel better before it shatters her.

“What do you want to do?” Ben asks, voice teetering on the edge of nervousness. “What do you want me to do, Leslie?”

She sucks in a deep, shaky breath, but she doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything. Because he smells like cinnamon and cloves and Christmas, and his grip around her is strong, comforting. Because he’s actually quivering himself in the briskness that is this dreary November day, and he isn’t running. He isn’t giving her some bullshit excuses about how he’ll keep it in his pants this time. How he won’t fuck anyone else because she’s the “only one” he “should” be fucking. He doesn’t try to make this about him or to throw it back in her face.

Ben’s asking what she wants him to do.

Her tiny, little fish might not even be his, and he’s still asking.

“Shh...” he whispers. “It’s okay. It’s okay... I’ve got you.”

And, for the first time in almost a year, Leslie allows herself a moment to just fall apart.

~

Somehow, he ends up at her house.

He moves around stacks of newspapers and magazines, sitting on very tiny section of her couch, squishing himself together as much as possible, hoping it might help him disappear forever. Because he totally might’ve gotten Leslie pregnant because, apparently, he doesn’t use condoms when he has drunken sex with very beautiful, striking, intelligent women. And it doesn’t help that he’s laced with this compulsive, compassionate desire to be with her. 

And he doesn’t know where it’s coming from because it’s so not his style.

Ben doesn’t really do people.

Okay, that sounds weird and wrong since he does actually do people.

What he’s trying to say is that he’s Ben Wyatt, and people don’t typically interest him. Not after Ice Town. His dad and mom and brother shunned him from their lives, and he lived in this disgusting, greasy, ratty one bedroom apartment for an entire fourteen months before pulling himself together just enough to go to college, get a degree in accounting, and get the fuck out of Minnesota. And he did that with the bare minimal interaction that a human needs to move through day to day life. So, he spoke to his professors and bosses and sometimes his co-workers while he had a job at the university’s library, and that was it.

So for him to feel this whatever this is about Leslie is... odd.

Weird.

Is he being punked?

No, right?

Because he’s not in this woman’s cluttered, but cute, house and sitting on her sofa. Because he’s not rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb as she sniffles into a tissue. Because he’s not listening to his heart pang relentlessly in his chest, sending shivers down his spine. Because he doesn’t feel this desire to help her, to fix her issues and fight through this together. Because that baby inside of her is probably his, and there’s no running away from that.

He doesn’t want to be the man who runs away anymore. 

Not from her. Not from the baby.

See. What the fuck is he thinking?

He rubs his neck. Scratches his head. Fiddles with his slacks while running his fingers through his hair. Bites his lower lip. He ignores the sweaty sensation that’s creeping over his entire body. Ben inhales sharply when he feels movement from beside him, where Leslie’s now upright from her previously slumped position against the cushions. He gulps. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she whispers so quietly he has to lean in to hear her.

And, forgive him for noticing, but she doesn’t seem like someone who would whisper.

Like the word doesn’t seem to match her personality.

“I mean, it’s kind of my fault,” he tells her, immediately panicking. “N-No. Wait. I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that it was a mist–” 

Leslie rubs his thigh. “I know what you mean. But you don’t even know me.”

“You don’t know me either. Why did you invite me into your house?”

She shrugs. “I just... You seem sweet.”

“You called me a jerk literally not even an hour ago,” he points out.

“That’s because you were being a jerk!” she exclaims. “But these last few months have been really hard, and I’ve felt so alone.”

He nods. He understands what that feels like. Once, he went twenty-eight entire days without speaking to a single person, and he nearly went nuts, even though, like he stated earlier, he doesn’t usually like people. “Is it... Do you think the baby’s... mine?” he questions, tapping his heel up and down almost frantically on the hardwood floor. “Um... Does it have the, uh, potential to be anyone else’s?”

Ben can’t run. He won’t run. 

Leslie shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay,” he tells her with a nod. “Okay.”

~

She doesn’t tell him. Doesn’t see any reason to ruin whatever this is.

Because it’s been two weeks, and Ben’s here for everything. He rubs her feet and back. He makes a nap schedule and enforces it strictly. He holds her hand at doctor’s appointments and kisses her bump. He smiles in her direction every time he sees her in City Hall. And she goes on like this because it’s relaxing, and she absolutely isn’t developing feelings for him. Tries to ignore it when he falls asleep in her bed every now and then, holding her tightly. And she definitely tries not to realize that he hasn’t stayed at his motel room in eight days now.

She doesn’t tell him because how could she? She can’t just admit to him, this incredibly sincere and genuine man, that she’s divorced, and her ex-husband cheated on her but still fucked her on the side for however long. Can’t admit to him that she slept with someone else a few days before she found herself in Indianapolis being turned down by Mark for the final time. Can’t admit to him that her tiny, little fish might not be his baby because he’s already acting like it is.

“I think we should find out the sex,” Ben says on this particular night, catching her off guard. 

She jumps at the suddenness of both the topic and his voice. She could’ve sworn he’d dozed off as she lay in his pillowed lap while he stroked her hair. “You do?”

He plays with one her curls, and she tries not to melt. “Yeah. I mean, I know I already painted the nursery that really nice pale green, but... What about names? And calling him or her ‘Fish’ isn’t exactly what I have in mind.”

“Fish is a perfect name for either gender, Benjamin,” she tells him, and the words slide off her tongue easily. She’s never felt more at ease for being in such a confusing situation. Ben makes her feel invincible. Like she can do anything and everything, especially while she’s seven months pregnant with their (possibly not their) baby. She wants the baby to be his. She can’t imagine him or her not being his. He’s the one who’s been here for her, even if it did come late and unexpected. She looks at it as a blessing in disguise. Sometimes, things take a while, and whoever’s up there clearly wanted her to wait a bit before she met Ben Wyatt.

Who’s easily the cutest person in existence.

Ben’s like a MILF. 

Nope. That’s wrong. 

A DILF. A hot DILF with a scruffy face who snores a bit too loudly for her tastes, but it’s okay because he’s handsome and adorable. 

“Why don’t we find out at the next appointment?” he asks. “It’s your decision, but I just thought I’d throw my opinion out there.”

She nods, and he leans down to carefully, tentatively kiss her hair. 

~

It’s Thanksgiving.

And, instead of sleeping in at some rundown motel while the rest of the United States celebrates with their families, Ben’s at Leslie’s house again, checking on a turkey every five minutes. They’re not doing anything special. Leslie’s been pretty under the weather for the past few days, and he’s making sure she takes it easy. Of course, though, she’s, well, her, and she desperately wants to have Thanksgiving Dinner, so he runs out to the grocery store at the very last minute possible, grabs a frozen turkey, a few side dishes, and quickly drives home.

To her house.

Because he doesn’t live here. 

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, thumbing through an article on his iPad, sniffling into a well-used Kleenex every few seconds. She’s stunning with her hair in a messy bun and only wearing one of his t-shirts and sweatpants that droop way past her brightly painted toenails. He kisses her warm, slightly damp forehead, and ends up hugging her again because she’s a very huggable person. He doesn’t even flinch when she coughs against his skin.

“Why don’t you go lie down?” he asks. “I’ll wake you up once it’s ready.”

Leslie shakes her head, and he doesn’t expect any other response from her. “I’m okay,” she rasps. “Who’s this?” 

He checks the turkey once more before glancing at the picture pulled up on the screen. “That’s me and my mom,” he says simply.

“You’re so cute!” she squeals. “Baby Benji had a mohawk!”

“Um, that’s not a mohawk, Knope. I’ve always had crazy hair.”

She chuckles. “You really do have crazy hair,” she says with a snicker. “When was this taken?”

“I think that’s Christmas of ’81 or ’82. I was around seven-ish.”

“She’s really pretty.”

He nods, and an unexpected lump swells in his throat. “Y-Yeah, she was.”

“Was?” 

Ben starts swirling his finger around in leftover flour from the piecrust he made earlier and swallows thickly. “She, uh, died a couple years ago. Cancer.”

Leslie immediately stands up, and he notes that she’s swaying on her feet. Her expanding belly makes it kind of difficult for her to hug him, but she does anyway, wrapping as much of herself around him as possible. “I’m really sorry, Ben. Were you two close?”

He nods, and no, he’s not going to start crying now. “Yeah. We had a bit of a falling out after Ice Town, but she forgave me. She’s actually the only one who did.” And he doesn’t know why he’s telling her this, but she’s special to him, and he wants her to know these things. His head spins in a million different directions, constantly reminding him of how big of a fuck up he truly is, but he doesn’t feel that way around her. He doesn’t need to be ashamed of himself because Leslie just seems to get and accept him for who he is. 

She makes him feel invincible.

“Do you... Do you think you could tell me a story about her?” she questions softly.

Ben rubs her tummy and feels Fish kick excitedly. “Of course.”

~

“So I was thinking,” Leslie starts, waddling over to the bed and sliding underneath the covers. “We should name the baby after your mom.”

And she can’t help but smile at that adorable shocky-surprise face Ben makes. It obviously is enough to spring him from his doze, to make him roll over to face her, slinging an arm over her enormous bump. “Really?”

She nods, grinning happily. “Of course. Juliet for a girl. Julian for a boy.”

“What about your dad?” he inquires carefully. “Roberta for a girl. Robin for a boy.” 

After their conversation about his mom, she told him about her dad. About how he used to take her fishing and make her bait her own hooks, even though she would scream and cry every time until she, one day, did it successfully without accidentally stabbing herself. About how he read to her every single night up until the day that he passed away. About how he made her passionate and resilient and taught her to speak up for herself at a very young age.

About how losing him that fateful night when she was ten ruined her and somehow made her stronger, braver in the end. 

“Ew to both of those options. Juliet Ann. Julian Robert.” 

“You know, I was expecting ridiculously long names from you. Like Li’l Sebastian Robert Richard Gringo Vader Spencer Knope or something like that.”

“Wow, you’re a giant nerd,” she chuckles, rubbing a penguin socked foot up his calf.

He shrugs, and she’ll never get tired of his goofy, crooked grin. “You know it.”

And it’s at that moment where panic creeps up and swells over her like a hurricane. 

Fish.

Juliet or Julian.

This baby might not be his.

Believe it or not, this has all been so peaceful and nice that she actually forgot about her predicament. Ben fits alongside her perfectly, and it’s as if this is just how it’s supposed to be. Like Mark was just a blip on her radar, and Dave is practically no one to her anyway. She doesn’t even really remember what he looks like. But Ben? Ben is sweet, kind, and loving. He wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t. And she knows that.

Except maybe if he ever found out the truth.

She doesn’t want to think about that, though.

So she does this instead. 

“I love you,” she whispers, clinging on to him. “I love you so much.”

And she doesn’t miss the tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over his cheeks. “I love you so much,” he says right back, pressing their lips together.

~

“How’s it goin’ with you and Leslie, man?” Tom questions.

And Ben immediately chokes on his swig of Pepsi. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, rubbing his chest. “Me and, uh, Leslie? W-What do you mean?”

“Relax, nerd. I’m not gonna tell anyone you’re screwing the pooch.”

Ben’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s not actually what ‘screwing the pooch’ means,” he points out.

Tom shrugs, waving his hand at him. “Ugh. Whatever. Stop nerding everything up with your nerdiness. But how’s the pregnancy sex?”

“That is... a completely inappropriate question.” 

But he does internally high five himself because, hello, pregnancy sex is craze-mazing, and he loves every second of every time Leslie gets very very very horny and jumps him. It happened around three o’clock this morning actually. She’d slipped her hand into his boxers and groped him awake, and they fooled around until she jumped out of bed (well, “jumped” as best as a woman who’s seven months pregnant can), proclaiming that Fish just stomped on her bladder.

“What about Mark? You guys heard from him? Does he know about the baby?”

His eyebrows furrow again. “Mark?”

Tom’s eyes widen. “You don’t know about Mark? Leslie’s ex-husband?”

Ex-husband?

Leslie has an ex-husband?

“Oh, dude. You gotta listen to this.”

~

“You lied to me,” he tells her, and tears stream viciously, quickly down her cheeks. “You lied to me, Leslie.”

“Ben, I–”

“I asked you if there was someone else. I asked you over and over again until you told me to stop panicking. That I was the only one.” 

He starts pacing around the room, rubbing his neck and forehead like he does when he’s nervous. Only he doesn’t seem that nervous. He seems angry. And she’s never seen him angry. She doesn’t want to put him in a box, to label him as this guy who doesn’t express himself often, but he rarely shows her anything other than his happy, goofy side. He has these brief quiet stents sometimes and occasionally sleeps for twelve entire hours every now and then, but those are the few signs she’s ever received from him that makes her re-evaluate how she looks at him.

“But then Tom tells me about Mark.” He says the name like it’s poisonous, venomous, like it could tear him apart, make him bleed out all over the floor. “And Dave.”

Leslie goes to stand up, but he eyes her, and she gulps, staying put. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she tells him honestly, hiccuping after those words leave her lips. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what, Leslie? Didn’t mean to make me think that Fis–” her heart drops when he pauses, “the baby was mine?”

“I tried to tell you s-so many times,” she reasons. And it’s true. She almost woke him up the other night, but she never worked up the nerve to. It’s like this gaping hole in her heart that refuses to close, to swell shut and never re-open. But now everything’s out in the open, and she can’t hide. She can’t turn her back on this because it could mean losing him forever. “I know that’s not an excuse,” she tries instead after that.

He shakes his head, and his face is reddening more and more, and she wants to hold him, to wrap him up in her arms and profusely apologize. To make amends for the lies and secrets. She knows it’s awful, what she did. What she hid from him. Why would he want to be the father to someone else’s baby when he barely knows her? She can’t expect that from anyone. 

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “It isn’t an excuse.”

~

He vomits the second he sees the toilet in the shitty motel bathroom. He drops to his knees and heaves for Fish and for Leslie and for himself. 

Because he might not be the father of Leslie’s baby.

Of Fish.

The tiny, little guy or girl he’s grown to love with every ounce, every fiber of his being over the last several weeks.

They nicknamed him or her, for fuck’s sake.

And he walked away from it. 

He walked away from Leslie. From Fish. From the chance of having a family

But Leslie lied to him. Doesn’t that mean something? Isn’t he entitled to be mad?

And then he reasons that no one’s stopping him because no one’s here, and he’s suddenly painfully aware of how alone that makes him feel. Like he’s nothing and that the earth’s swallowing him whole molecule by molecule. He spits and leans against the decrepit, moldy walls and draws his knees to his chest, shielding his face from the world as he sniffles and hiccups and nearly hurls all over his tattered jeans. 

She told him there was no one else. She told him that multiple times.

Why didn’t she tell him about Mark?

He’s willing to admit that he more or less understands how Dave would never come up in conversation, but Mark? He’s her fucking ex-husband. They were married. They slept in that fucking bed he’s slept in multiple times. He’s held her hand and kissed her lips and showered with her. He’s made love with her and fixed her dinner and did her laundry. He’s rubbed her back and kissed her when she’s sleepy and cheered her up when she’s down.

Ben jumps and hangs his head back in the toilet.

Sloppy seconds.

More like sloppy thirds.

That’s all he is.

~

The next time she sees Ben, he’s sporting a beard and disastrously messy bedhead and dark circles beneath his eyes. 

“I want you to take a paternity test,” she says right up front because there’s no reason to hide anymore. “That way we can figure this out.”

He doesn’t invite her in.

“Figure what out? There’s only a slight chance it’s even mine,” he tells her with no emotion whatsoever.

And when did he start referring to Fish as “it.” He’s never done that, not even once.

“Well, this is a way to find out for sure. Don’t you want that?”

He shrugs, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pouch. “I guess.”

“Ben, I’m–”

He sighs, stopping her right there. “It’s okay.”

She looks up at him. “It’s okay?” she repeats.

He nods. “It’s okay. I... get why you didn’t tell me.” 

But there’s something off about the way he’s saying it. Not that he doesn’t mean it, but that he’s supremely exhausted and ripping open and exploding all at once. “You don’t mean that.”

“With all due respect, Leslie, you can’t tell me what I do and don’t mean.”

“No,” she says. “I know you, Ben. And I know you’re not okay with this.”

He throws his hands up in the air, and the door opens just enough for her to feel a waft of freezing air slam into her that has nothing to do with the fact that it’s December. And he lets her in. The room is still as bare as ever, and there’s a thick mound of blankets piled up on the clearly well used bed, and a pile of building clothes in his laundry basket. 

“I’m not okay with it,” he admits. “But I don’t... I... I dunno... Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He sits on the mattress, and she bites her lip as she takes a seat in a chair across from him, rubbing her belly. “I was terrified. Mark... He didn’t treat me very well, and... When he ended things, it still kinda ruined me. Even with all the crap he put me through, I wanted to be with him. So I... got drunk and slept with Dave at some bar I saw Mark was going to on Facebook, hoping to make him jealous. And then I sorta did the same thing with you a few nights later...”

“You thought I would think less of you?”

She nods. “I mean, don’t you? I’m basically just a man whore,” she says. “And I’m really not sure if that only applies to males or not.”

Leslie hopes to get a chuckle or that crooked grin to come out of him, but nothing.

“I stopped taking my pills,” he tells her. “Because I wanted to let the gravity of this, whatever this is, float away. I wanted to forget that you or Fish even existed. I wanted to forget that this happened.”

She nods. “I understand.”

“And I don’t know if I can... do this anymore,” Ben admits.

Tears find a way to slip down her cheeks, and sobs wrack her body.

Instead, of wrapping her up in his strong, solid arms, Ben hands her a few tissues and, very briefly, places a clammy hand on her knee.

And that’s it. That’s all.

~

He hasn’t gotten out of bed in three days.

Not even once.

Because he’s a numbers guy, has been his entire life, and he stupidly, foolishly fell in love with Leslie and Fish Knope. He’s a numbers guy, super logical and tactical and reasonable, and yet he let his heart get ripped to shreds when he convinced himself he was done with that ages ago. He’s a numbers guy, and he’s letting himself waste away in some shitty motel room. He doesn’t eat. He tries to sleep the days away. He doesn’t bathe or watch TV or talk to anyone.

He’s taken eleven of his however many sick days and keeps getting texts from Chris asking if he needs anything.

But what he needs is Leslie.

He hasn’t seen her since he told her he doesn’t think he can be a part of that relationship anymore.

Not that he should expect to see her after that. 

It’s his own moronic fault anyway. 

And it’s two days until Christmas, and Ben anticipated spending the holiday with Leslie and Fish. He bought her chocolates and stuffed animals and even knitted her a quilt. And he got a plethora of gender-neutral Star Wars onesies for Fish during each and every stage of his or her life until he or she is around four years old. He hasn’t spent Christmas with anyone other than his mom since he was seventeen, and she’s not around anymore, and he’s so tired of being alone.

His phone rings, and he hopes desperately that it’s Leslie.

And he doesn’t even know why. He’s angry and pissed and hurt.

So why does he want her to call so badly?

It’s Chris. Go figure.

Ben doesn’t answer and just tugs the comforter over his face.

He’s running and hiding, but who cares? He knows he certainly shouldn’t.

~

“Something’s wrong,” Leslie tells Ann on Christmas Eve. “Something’s really really wrong.”

“What do you mean?” her best friend asks.

“Something’s wrong with the baby.”

~

He doesn’t care about the paternity test when he hears the news. He couldn’t give a shit, actually.

What he cares about is the fact that Leslie’s having a C-section. 

Ben frantically pulls on his shoes, forgetting about a hat or coat.

None of that matters anyway.

~

Leslie’s painfully aware of it all at once.

Fish is here.

It’s a boy.

He’s a boy.

With ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. 

She doesn’t get to see him yet. Can’t see him.

He’s too small and can’t breathe without machines helping him.

She isn’t religious, but, for the first time since her father died, Leslie Knope prays.

~

“How is she?” Ben asks Ann quickly. “Please tell me she’s okay.”

Ann makes a face that he can’t quite decipher. “She’s better. She had dangerously high blood pressure, and she couldn’t wait anymore to have the baby.”

“And Fish?” he questions.

“Fish?” 

“The baby,” he says. “How’s the baby?”

“He’s... It’s not looking too good right now.”

And he may or may not heave into the nearby fake ficus upon hearing that.

~

Ben’s holding her hand when her eyes groggily pop open. He’s asleep, resting his head on his extended arm with his slight, elfish body curled into an awkward looking ball in the chair, covered up with a blue blanket. His hair is in its endearingly messy state, and he’s snoring, and this moment of blissfulness in the midst of the chaos is so wonderful that she starts crying. Actually crying. Because she hasn’t seen the baby, and Ben’s here, and it’s too much.

“Hey,” she hears. “Shh... It’s okay.”

“I-I’m so sorry, Ben,” she sobs, and he instantly takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, hugging her as tightly as he can without hurting her too much. Because, guess what, having a baby cut out of her isn’t quite what she imagined. “I s-screwed up...”

“No. No no no. Leslie, stop. It’s okay. Everything’s okay,” he whispers sweetly, carding his fingers through her hair and rubbing her back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She wants to tell him that there’s no reason for him to be, that she’s the one who messed everything up, but he’s here. Ben’s here. “Fish?” she questions.

Leslie feels him shrug. “I-I... I wish I knew more... No one will tell me what’s going on.”

Because he isn’t the father.

Well, she doesn’t know if he is or not. And neither does anyone else. It’s honestly a miracle he’s in her room at this time.

“But I do know he’s a boy,” he says. “We had a boy, Leslie.”

We.

We.

We.

She repeats it over and over again in her head and finds herself smiling wickedly with her face still hidden in his neck.

They had a boy.

“Julian,” she whispers, sneaking her hand down to where the baby once was, only wincing slightly.

“Julian,” he agrees, kissing her hair. 

~

All it takes is a swab of spit.

Spit.

That’s what determines his future.

Well, not really...

But he so desperately wants to be the biological father of Fish.

Julian.

Honestly, though, Ben loves him and Leslie so much either way. There’s nothing anyone can say or do to take them from him because he’s been down that road already. Where things are ridiculously dark and scary, and he doesn’t want to go there again. For the first time in his entire life, he’s actually fucking okay, and he won’t let anything bad happen. If he’s not the biological father, then so be it. He’ll move on. Because he loves Julian to the moon and back. 

It’s very late on Christmas Day, and he’s tapping his heel up and down while waiting for the results, even though it’s been almost twenty-four hours now. Leslie was wheeled into the NICU to meet Julian for the first time, and she snuck in a few pictures to show him while she held his tiny hand through the glass. He’s absolutely handsome and adorable, and Ben can’t wait to hold him in his arms, to kiss his tiny nose, to cuddle him to bits and pieces.

“We should learn how to knit,” Leslie tells him tiredly.

And, true to her nature, she’s fighting sleep, even though she just had a C-section not even a full day ago.

“Why’s that?” he asks her with a grin, rubbing over her palm with his thumb. 

She sighs happily. “I wanna knit Fish a sweater. Or socks. Or maybe a cute, little hat. With an aquatic theme, of course.”

He chuckles. “Do you think we’ll ever stop calling him Fish?”

“Probably not. But that’s okay.”

Ben nods. “It’s perfect.” 

~

He’s the father.

Benjamin Wyatt is the biological father of Julian Robert Knope-Wyatt. 

Of their tiny, little Fish. 

The test confirmed he’s actually the father.

Leslie cries tears of joy, and Ben joins her.

Because she never expected her life to turn out this way. She never expected to go through a divorce. She never even expected to meet the father of her baby because he, whoever he was, was in the wind. But he’s not in the wind. He’s here, sitting beside her in a rather uncomfortable looking chair, staring at Julian in awe of what he’s created with her. He’s hooked up to machines and has a long road ahead of him, but this is so much more than she expected.

“He has your nose,” she tells Ben.

Ben.

Her Ben.

Who will be there for anything and everything their lives throw at them.

He smiles, and, seriously, could anyone be anymore perfect than him? “He has your eyes.”

“Can you believe that he was born on Christmas Eve?” she asks. 

“He’s our little Christmas miracle.”

Ben reaches out to rub Julian’s foot before leaning over to kiss her cheek. “We love you, Ben.”

“We love you too, Leslie,” he whispers.


End file.
